


Yellow camellia

by Kangoo



Series: April Bouquet [5]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Newt-centric, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23514682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangoo/pseuds/Kangoo
Summary: Newt is good at hiding things. It's almost the death of him.
Relationships: Newt/Thomas (Maze Runner)
Series: April Bouquet [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685779
Comments: 12
Kudos: 199





	Yellow camellia

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know anymore
> 
> theme: longing

Newt is good at hiding things. That’s part of why Alby made him his second in command, why Minho went to him first when he had bad news about the Maze he didn’t want to share with all of the Gladers. It’s always useful to have someone you can confide in who you know won’t let any information slip. In his darkest hours, he did it out of habit. He spent weeks at his lowest before he threw himself off a wall in the Maze, and no one ever suspected a thing. He’s a born secret keeper.

When he starts developing feelings for Thomas — the warm, gooey, overwhelming sort of feelings, the kind that starts with a capital L — covering it comes naturally to him. They don’t have the time for such things, and Thomas wouldn’t reciprocate, anyway. It’s best for everyone if he keeps it to himself, so it’s almost easy to do so. Almost.

He’s caught in Tommy’s orbit, unable to break away or to come any closer. All he can do is stay at his side and keep him safe. And he does. He sticks with Tommy through every reckless plan he thinks up, he guards his back, and he doesn’t say a thing. Sometimes his eyes linger a little too long, or a wistful sigh escapes him, but he’s _good_ at this, and no one caught him yet. He likes to think he’s happy with what they have.

It’s a lie he tells himself, but he’s a good liar. You have to be, to keep secrets: it’s one big lie by omission. The thing with lies though is that they outgrow you. They start inconspicuous enough — so small no one thinks to question you on it. Of course Newt and Thomas are friends. Of course there’s nothing more to it.

But they rarely, if ever, stay that way. Lies, that is.

Newt can feel his secret growing inside of him at each foolish stunt Tommy pulls, every time he talks sadly about Teresa or shares a long, emotionally charged look with Brenda. It grows like wildflowers and ivy, reaching up for the light.

It takes roots.

The secret takes more place inside of him each day, choking out his words before they can stumble over his tongue and out his lips, curling around his ribs and squeezing them tightly, painfully. It was only a matter of time before it became literal.

The first time Newt coughs up petals, he ignores it. He tells himself he swallowed them on accident. The wind might have blown them in his food and he didn’t notice. No matter if there isn’t a single flower for miles around. It’s a stupid excuse but he’ll break without it. Call it a coping mechanism, call it ignorance; truth is, it’s just cowardice. If he doesn’t think about it it might go away, as if that’s worked for him before.

But it doesn’t stop. Why would it? Life has never been forgiving to him before. Tommy smiles at him, one of his rare real grins, and his chest seizes up, his lungs burn. He coughs in his hand and closes it tightly around the handful of yellow petals.

“Air’s dry,” he says, shrugging when Tommy levels him with a concerned look. “I think there’s more dust in my throat than in the whole Scorch. What were you saying about the train?”

Tommy drops it in favor of laying down the plan to rescue Minho. Newt smiles to himself and discreetly crushes the petals under his heels while Tommy isn’t looking.

It’ll pass. It always does.

Except when it doesn’t.

The coughing worsens. He does his best to hide it, but there’s only so much he can do before the others start to look at him with wariness and concern. It puts him on edge, the mix of pity and suspicion, and he snaps at them more often than he’d like to.

Today was a bad day. His chest has been hurting non-stop since he woke up and his throat itches, from coughing so much or from the flowers tickling his flesh he’s not sure yet. All of this for Tommy ( _because_ of Tommy).

So when he evidently hesitates to risk Teresa’s well-being — Teresa the traitor, Teresa who’s responsible for Minho’s capture, ~~Teresa who’s been keeping Thomas away from him~~ — he snaps. He blinks and suddenly he has Thomas pinned and his throat feels raw as if he’s been screaming.

He apologizes but it sounds brittle, as shaky as he feels. Later, when Thomas comes to sit right next to it, he considers telling him. Instead he says it’s the Flare. It’s easier to lie when you’ve been doing it for so long. That’s the thing about secrets: even when you want to share them, you can’t.

He tries to convince himself it’s worth it, for Tommy. There’s nothing else to be done. No one can pull these out of him and Thomas— Teresa has his heart for now. After all of this is over, maybe Brenda will take better care of it. There’s no space of Newt there, so he can only do his best to bear through it. Fight til the end.

(It might come sooner than he’d like, but he’s ready for that too.)

The finality of it still weighs heavy on his mind, even as he just feels like giving fate a grim grin and opening his arms wide to accept his fate. Eventually there will be nothing left of him but bones overgrown with secrets and lies, and people passing by his final resting place will think they look very much like wild flowers.

There’s beauty in that. It’s almost comforting.

It gets exponentially worse as they make their way through the Last City. Adrenaline and adrenaline make his breath even shorter than usual. Teresa glances at him, maybe hearing him wheeze shallowly through his helmet, and he stubbornly refuses to look back.

He still watches Tommy’s back through it all. No matter that his sight is becoming hazy at the edges, that his head is swimming. He’ll see this to the end.

Not much further though.

Running does not help. Jumping a hundred feet into a shallow pool _definitely_ doesn’t help. He breaks the surface of the water with a gasp, drenched to the bone, and his eyes meet Tommy’s through sodden locks of hair.

He’s beautiful. It takes Newt’s breath away. It’s minutes before he finds it again, and by the time he can breathe again and his vision clears he’s propped against a wall and there’s blood and flowers in his lap. He brushes the flower away before Tommy can see them, wipes his bloody mouth on his sleeve.

They have to help him walk after this. He’s not sure at what point they start carrying him. It’s all he can do to keep his feet from tripping against the uneven pavement, and eventually he loses even that ability. It’s so hard to breathe. He drags a lungful of air in and feels none of it as it’s swallowed by the vegetation stuck in his throat. Everything goes black for a moment. Then there’s fire. He can’t hear Minho and Gally anymore, but he can sort of make out Thomas in the blur. His voice sounds muffled and distant, but he can still hear the panic in it.

Blood trickles down his chin. He wets his lips and tries to tell Tommy— anything, at this point. _Be strong, take care, think of me when I’m gone_.

Thomas doesn’t listen. He never does when he has an idea in mind. Instead he hoists Newt up, slings his arm over his shoulders, and drags him along. Sometimes it feels like that’s all he ever does. But he’s warm and solid against Newt’s side, so he doesn’t find it in himself to complain about the pain. He even makes an effort to match his steps but his legs are heavy and numb, and he can only sort of bring his feet under him before his strength fails him.

When he goes down his weight drags Tommy down with him. He struggles to choke out words, manages to beg _Kill me, Tommy_ — and can’t say anything more as he’s wracked by a cough. Tommy pushes to his side before he chokes.

Blood splatters on the ground, bright red in the artificial lights. The coughing doesn’t stop, and soon it’s joined by petals, then whole flowers, yellow stained with red. He feels like he’s going to throw up, like he’s doing to _die_. Again, he tries to speak, propping himself up on his forearms.

“Tommy—“

“C’mon, Newt, hold on, they’re getting the antidote—”

Thomas’ voice is shaking. He must be too stressed to notice that Newt’s symptoms have nothing to do with the Flare. Newt smiles sadly through the pain. His mouth tastes like copper and dirt.

“Tommy,” he repeats softly, unable to get in enough air to speak any louder. All the energy he has, he puts in his following words. “ _It hurts._ ”

What he wants to say is: _I love you. I hope you miss me._ But a secret is only a secret for as long as you keep it, and he won’t betray himself so close to the end. He just wishes Thomas would take pity on him. There’s no hope for him except in a quick death, but his fingers are shaking too much to get to his knife.

His arms give up under him and he crashes to the ground.

Through the ringing in his ear, he thinks he hears Thomas’ voice saying _I love you_. He’s heard it so many times in his dreams but it’s still as sweet as the first time. He holds this one reassurance from his feverish mind close to his heart, and sinks into the darkness.

He wakes up. At first all he hears is a persistent humming, like an engine, but soon it’s overtaken by soft voices. It reminds him of early mornings in the Glade, and the nostalgia is such a tangible thing it hurts.

It’s… the only thing that does.

His chest is free of the acute pain he’s been living with for months. He takes a tentative breath through his nose and feels nothing blocking it. There’s a bone-deep ache in its place, but it feels more like the soreness he’d get from overexerting himself. It’s as if the roots are gone — maybe death isn’t so bad, in the end.

It’s warm and painless. He’s so grateful for it he feels like he might cry.

When he cracks his eyes open, he finds that the Other Side looks a lot like a Berg. He definitely recognizes that ceiling.

That’s when it dawns on him that he might have survived, in the end. The humming must actually be the Berg’s engine, the hard surface he’s laying on its cold metal floor. His head is pillowed on something soft though, and he frowns slightly, trying to tell what it may be.

“Newt?” Someone whispers. His pillow shifts slightly, and Thomas’ head appears above him. He’s covered in blood and grime, and his eyes are red like he’s been crying.

That won’t do. Newt hasn’t survived this far for Thomas to be _crying_. He wishes he could touch his face, wipes away some of the blood, but his arms feel heavy and numb. Instead he opens his eyes fully and cracks something resembling a smile, hoping to comfort his friend.

“Everyone made it out?” He rasps.

Thomas’ eyes tighten and he swallows dry. “Teresa didn’t.”

“Oh.”

“But you did. You did.” Tommy sounds like he’s about to cry again. “Shit, Newt, you scared me to death.”

Fingers card through his hair. He lets his eyes fall half-closed again and hums comfortingly, although at the moment it feels more like Tommy is comforting _him_. Which doesn’t make any sense. He’s alive. He doesn’t need more.

Well, there’s one thing.

“Did Minho and Gally get the serum in time?”

“No. But it doesn’t matter. You didn’t have the Flare.”

Newt freezes, opens his eyes again. The hand in his hair stills. Thomas is looking at him, looking more tired than accusing.

“You lied.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“You should have told me.”

Newt wants to say it wouldn’t have made a difference. But he remembers a faint voice as he was drifting into unconsciousness, begging, _stay with me. I love you._

Maybe he’s not the only one here who’s good at hiding things.

“I thought you loved Teresa,” he says instead. Not quite an apology, but an explanation.

“I did. And then I loved you.”

This time it’s not flowers that take his breath away. It’s just Tommy’s painfully earnest stare, the gentleness with which he brushes Newt’s hair off his face. There’s something growing in his chest.

He thinks it might be joy.

**Author's Note:**

> come haunt me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/2Fast2Kangoo) or [tumblr](https://youngster-monster.tumblr.com/)


End file.
